


Touch Me Like You Know Me

by reefee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 20:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reefee/pseuds/reefee
Summary: Ron knows he's not gay, yet he somehow finds a way to always end the night with a cock in his mouth.





	Touch Me Like You Know Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song High Tops by Del Water Gap

He knew he wasn't gay just like he knew that Hippogriffs had wings. He'd seen it for himself. The proof was there in the physical manifestation of his wife's body, the smooth skin of their bellies writhing against one another. He couldn't help but laugh when the slick of their sweat created suction. Hermione always rolled her eyes in feigned annoyance, but joined in his chuckles. It was easy. Like playing Quidditch with Harry. 

Ron hated the smell of it. Sex: primal and heavy. He'd always thought he'd been so sly when he'd jerk off in his bedroom, never concerned when his mom would walk in moments after his descent from the ultimate peak. Now he recognized the stench of cum. 

Sweat dripped from his forehead, plastering his ever too long hair, scratching at his eyebrows. He leaned onto his knees, still naked and panting, at the side of the bed. He heard the rustle of Hermione standing and entering the bathroom. Her contented sighs mingled with the sound of the fan. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The sigh he blew out didn't sound like Hermione's; it sounded like air being let out from an overinflated balloon. 

When she came back she smelled of spearmint toothpaste and that leave-in conditioner she and her mom had been raving about since going shopping in Muggle London last week. Ron pretended to be interested, asking questions he figured his dad might ask; "What's in it? Why don't you just use a potion? What'd the shop look like?" He'd almost overdone it and said, "Fascinating creatures, Muggles, aren't they?" Hermione offered to bring him next time and Ron nodded, both of them knowing he'd never go. 

"Aren't you going to bed," Hermione'd asked after settling under the comforter, pulling the latest book for her Witches Weekly Book Club open. She didn't look up at him, not really. Ron thought he saw her eyes flicker to him for a moment, but couldn't tell if it was just the zip of her eyes across the page.

"Harry'd mentioned something about meeting up for a drink." 

It sounded like a lie because it was one.

Hermione didn't notice.

Ron stood, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt he had gotten at a marathon he'd attended with his in-laws. It had been for charity, but he couldn't quite remember what or who the benefit was for. Didn't seem very important. 

Hermione definitely looked up, "You're wearing that?" 

"Just going down to the pub," he'd already reached the door and almost forgot to throw an "I love you" back into the room before shutting it gently. The kids had been asleep for hours, but Hugo had a particularly difficult time staying that way. Hermione was better at mediating that, anyway. It was better if Ron was gone if (and when) his son awoke. Hermione's mom had always believed in the method of self-soothing and Hermione was an old hand at consistency. She would just tell him to go back into his room and lay down. She would reassure him, not harshly, necessarily, but firmly, that there was not a boggart or a dementor in his closet. There were no ghouls or vampires or werewolves (though when werewolves came up, she would launch into a rant about Uncle Remus and prejudice and the importance of rights for all beings). Ron admired Hermione for a lot of things, but her parenting was where she really excelled. Ron usually popped in a movie and watched it with Hugo, staying up with him well into the early morning. Hermione always lectured him about it, but he wouldn't stop. The feel of Hugo's chest resting on his as they watched old tapes from Hermione's childhood was as intoxicating a drug as any Ron had ever tried.

The pub was scarcely populated. That didn't concern him. He was only here looking for one person. Ron sat down at the bar and ordered a pint. The bartender must have been new, judging by the amount of head on his beer. He tapped at the rim of his glass, splitting his attention between the streaks in the condensation and the door. He tried to move his head as little as possible. He didn't feel coy, but it made him feel better to at least try. 

His skin was warm, like a rock set out in the sun. It wasn't unlike the skin of his wife, not really. The only difference were the callouses on his hands, the deep ridges and mountains interrupting his fingerprints. Ron loved the way they felt exploring his body, running up and down his sides, grabbing at his cock.

It was over too soon, as it always was. The mess was magicked away and Dean tried to engage Ron, as he always did. Ron followed the same path he had always taken and grunted a, "See ya later," before putting on his jacket and leaving the apartment. It was nearing two and Ron knew that Hermione had to have been asleep for a few hours, at the least. She'd never check with Harry to ask about their late night beer. Neither of them had actually talked to Harry in months. Lily was new, as was his position as Head Auror. When the piece of Voldemort died in Harry, so did the memory of the war. That's how it looked from where Ron stood.

He wished it would rain on him, if only to wash away the stench of cum.


End file.
